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DRY POINTS 

1887-1920 

BY 

HENRY MARTYN HOYT 




PRESENTED Vf{ f <A^^ 



DRY POINTS 




HENRY MARTYN HOYT 
Self Portrait 



DRY POINTS 

STUDIES IN 
BLACK AND WHITE 



BY 

HENRY MARTYN HOYT 

1887 — 1920 

WITH BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH BY 
WILLIAM ROSE BENJET 



NEW YORK 

FRANK SHAY 

1921 






Copyright, 1921, by 
FRANK SHAY 






LIST OF CONTENTS. 

Early Poems (1908-1911) 

The Land of Dreams, 23 

Rome, Sunset, 24 

John Keats, 25 

The Pawn Shop, 26 

Before a Portrait of Rembrandt, 27 

The Fishers, 28 

The Spell, 31 

The Wee Mannie, 33 

The Tower Casement, 36 

Poems Written During 1920 

Dedicatory, 39 

Nomad, 40 

Coliseum, 41 

On the Fly-Leaf of "Renascence," 42 

1917-1919, 43 

Hyperion to a Satyr, 44 

The Master of The World 

A Comedy in One Act, 51 



"HENRY" 

Thirteen years ago this summer there were 
three of us on a hillside in Northern California, 
one sitting on a campstool with a field easel and 
color-box before him^ one sprawled out beside 
the painter, his eyes shaded by a very old hat, — 
the third, some twelve years younger than the 
two recent Yale graduates, a small boy in 
knickerbockers, watching through goblinlike 
glasses the antics of a curly brown dog who ran 
and yelped, chasing red-winged blackbirds 
through sunflecked ripples of silvery wild-oats 
on the slope below. 

In the company of myself and my brother, 
"Henry" was quietly painting, his very thick, 
black eyebrows drawn together with concentra- 
tion, his very white teeth gleaming in a sudden 
smile as we exchanged serious theories mixed 
with badinage. He was full of oddly apposite 
quotations from many well-loved books. One of 
'[ 7 ] 



his favorite brightly-colored bow-ties showed 
like a large butterfly at the throat of his 
painter's smock. His fine erect head with its 
dark hair, his vivid coloring, made an arresting 
"composition." Extraordinarily sympathetic 
hazel eyes he had, that flashed with pleasure in 
beauty, sparkled with amusement, roved from 
mine to the tableau of Stephen watching 
"Prince" — back to his canvas — out again to the 
landscape. He talked animatedly. His fund 
of literary reference and typically Henrj'^esque 
catchwords seemed inexhaustible. 

That is the first picture that comes into my 
mind, a snapshot of one morning in a particu- 
larly golden summer, when Youth possessed all 
the ages, when Time moved slowly and majesti- 
cally over us with the tranced beauty of a sum- 
mer cloud. 

"Henry" — his full name was Henry Martyn 
Hoyt — was born at Rosemont, Pennsylvania, in 
1887, the son of Henry Martyn Hoyt, Jr., and 
Anne McMichael, his wife. He was of Colonial 
American stock on both sides, English on his 
father's, Scotch-Irish and French on his 
mother's. His paternal grandfather was Gov- 
ernor of Pennsylvania and his maternal great- 
grandfather an early Mayor of Philadelphia. 

[ 8 ]■ 



His father was Solicitor-General of the United 
States, under President Roosevelt. From both 
parents he inherited high integrity, intelligence, 
wit and imagination. He and I first met at 
college on both being elected to the editorial 
board of the Yale Record. He drew pictures 
and made verse. I also made verse. 

We enjoyed many glorious evenings. And we 
were always talking Keats, Kipling or Brown- 
ing. It was to Henry that I owed my persever- 
ance into the intricacies of Browning, having 
been bothered by Robert's "obscurity" before 
that. We sat up late reciting favorite poetry 
and discussing all the people we didn't like. We 
sat up late questioning the universe and plan- 
ning great futures. We were together as much 
as possible, with one member of the firm in 
"Academic" and the other way down College 
Street in the fastnesses of ShefF. We liked 
each other on sight and continued to like each 
other. We strove occasionally, in fantastic 
ways, to annoy others. 

His complete independence of attitude and 
the individuality with which he did or said any- 
thing marked him out immediately from among 
all the other men I knew. He observed the life 
around him keenly. His comments were usually 

[ 9 ] 



unexpected and always pungent. He loved his 
own group of friends and enjoyed their society. 
He was always witty and instinctively on the 
side of the underdog. 

But under all his nonsense and enjoyment of 
the hour you felt a constructive, logical mind at 
work, almost austere in its desire for the truth 
about things. No one could fool Henry or put 
him off with an insufficient explanation. Neither 
could he be "talked down." Younger than most 
of the men in his class, his mind was far more 
alive, alert, restless and questioning than the 
average. And he was always ready to express 
himself with biting vehemence where sham was 
detected. 

Yet I think he was one of the most funda- 
mentally friendly, kind and guileless men I have 
ever known. His heart responded instantly to 
any genuine appeal. By converse it never re- 
sponded to merely bogus sentimentality, which 
he hated and ridiculed. 

College life usually casts men in a mould from 
which they never wholly escape. No one en- 
joyed more keenly the academic environment on 
its aesthetic side than Henry. But nothing 
could ever have cast him in a mould. He was 
siii generis from the start — and to the end. 
[ 10 ] 



He had a very high quality of spiritual 
courage. His presence was engaging. And 
steadily there grew within him the desire for 
genuinely artistic expression. He graduated 
from Yale one month after his twentieth birth- 
day, and a first compromise between the study 
of the law and his own wish to paint sent him 
to the Harvard Architectural School in Boston 
the next fall, after a summer spent abroad. 

The following summer (1908) he came out to 
visit me and my family in California. I was 
then endeavoring to make a start at independent 
writing. During the summer Henry and I 
wrote and criticized poetry together. Some of 
his earliest poems were written at the big study- 
table we both remembered so well for years 
afterward, in a large French-windowed room in 
the Commanding Officer's quarters at Benicia 
Arsenal. When he returned to the East we 
kept up a lavish correspondence for a year or 
more, its paper and envelopes fantastically 
decorated with drawings in colored inks. Of 
course his own drawings were joys forever, and 
far superior to my own in technique. I remem- 
ber one in which we were depicted as pouring 
oil upon the Hudson River, and applying the 
torch. We had the dream then of living to- 

[ II ] 



gether in "a garret aloof" in New York and 
working out highly artistic — and incidentally 
penniless — Bohemian destinies. But when I 
finally did come East, Henry was studying art 
at the Boston Museum, under Tarbell and 
Benson and Philip Hale. He paid several visits, 
however, to New York, to foregather with my- 
self and Sinclair Lewis, rooming together then 
down in Greenwich Village. 

Henry travelled abroad again in France, Ger- 
many and Italy. In his twenty-fifth year he 
married Alice Gordon Parker. His wife was 
also an artist. As I myself married in the fol- 
lowing year and became a Long Island com- 
muter, Henry and I necessarily saw much less 
of each other than formerly. 

He had gone to Spain on his wedding-trip 
and often afterward maintained that Spain was 
the country of the world to live in. 

Meanwhile his draughtsmanship had per- 
fected itself, his mastery of both painting and 
etching had rapidly increased. Before the War 
came he had made great advances as an inde- 
pendent artist. He followed with utter sin- 
cerity, fine instinct and constant discrimination 
the dictates of his own artistic conscience. He 
[ 12 ] 



strove for the very highest development of 
great and genuine gifts. 

His first child, Constance^ was born a year 
after his marriage. His second, Henry M. 
Hoyt, 4th, several years later. Both children 
adored him. His amusing simplicity and lively 
sj^mpathy always drew children to him. His 
diverting personality fascinated them. 

For he could always play with the greatest 
gaiety ; but his intellect became more and more 
vitally interested in the new revolt that was 
changing the industrial situation in America, in 
the new order of thought that was replacing the 
old, in all modern social developments and ex- 
periments. A juvenile admirer of Robin Hood, 
Malory and Mark Twain, an early "discoverer" 
of H. G. Wells, one who as an undergraduate 
read Ibsen and Shaw with gusto, delighting also 
in the poems of John Davidson, the novels of 
Thomas Hardy, the socialistic ideas of William 
Morris, — Henry was never likely to ossify into 
philosophical or political conservatism. There 
was always in him a strong and decided strain 
of sympathy for the lot of the common laborer, 
and a desire for what William James called 
"tough-mindedness" in facing the grimmest 
facts of life. His admiration went out to any 
[ 13 ] 



writer or philosopher who endeavored to unveil 
any actual truth about life. He read modern 
economics and did a deal of thinking. I fear my 
own persistent aesthetic romanticism irritated 
him a good deal at one time^ though he always 
retained a fine appreciation for the full flavor 
of old books — Burton's "Anatomy/' Rabelais, 
the Elizabethan dramatists, the numerous old 
ballads and catches that he could troll so di- 
vertingly. And surely no one could give to a 
fine Spring day more romance and glamour 
than he! 

He liked to call himself a Socialist. Yet 
there was never a more ingrained individualist. 
I do not mean in any selfish sense — but the in- 
dependence of his personality was too intense 
for it to be otherwise. So his revolt remained 
largely intellectual. He never attached himself 
to any organized movement. 

On the other hand, Henry never worshipped 
any art in the sense that he felt it the most 
important thing in the world. An art to him 
was, rather, a jolly craft at which to work, im- 
portant in its place, but not nearly so important 
as the evolution of human society or the living 
of a full and useful life. He would have been 
unbelievably happy in a Wellsian Utopia — per- 
[ 14 ] 



haps even happier as a Renaissance guildsman 
or artist. He always had a great interest in 
other professions and other trades. He could, 
I feel sure, have made himself either a good 
physician or a highly skilled carpenter. He 
was clever with his hands and thoroughly en- 
joyed making himself useful in many ways 
about his own home. In the Air Service in 
France he took the same vivid interest in 
photography. I have known few men who could 
talk as entertainingly or with such a fund of 
information upon such a variety of subjects — 
from the philosophies of William James and 
Bergson to the dexterity of John J. McGraw at 
playing "baby ball." As his friend, John 
Storrs, the sculptor, said to me, "What an eye 
he had! He enjoyed everything from a master- 
piece of painting to a prizefight !" 

If this picture seems highly colored, I can 
only say that the man's personality was vivid in 
the extreme. He carried himself with a certain 
air, often slightly aggressive, his grave or 
brightly amused eyes taking in everything that 
went on about him. "He wore an overcoat of 
glory." 

Well, "what's become of Waring.^" He has 
left us his brilliant paintings, his admirable 

[ 15 ] 



etchings and drawings^ these poems and this 
play, chosen from among the scattered work he 
contributed occasionally to various magazines. 
The play and some of the poems here included 
have never before been published. But they are 
at best such fragmentary testimony to what he 
might have lived to do in literature ! Who can 
really recapture the man from them, who did 
not actually know him? In five minutes of his 
energetic talk I have found more genuine amuse- 
ment and authentic inspiration than in nine out 
of any ten books I read. In his letters — but his 
correspondence was a delight. 

Yes, I loved my friend. I loved him better 
than any man I have ever known. We were 
constantly together during his last year, and I 
found him, one evening, August 25, 1920, dead 
in his studio apartment where we were tem- 
porarily living together. With what fortitude 
he met the bitterest period of his life — that last 
year on earth — I know deeply. His efforts to 
help others, his intense desire to find some way 
of life that would be regenerative, some sort of 
leaven. He and I passed through hours of the 
greatest happiness and hours of the greatest and 
blackest bitterness together. My efforts to help 
him were futile, of no avail. 
[ 16 ] 



But no, he wouldn't want me to say that. It 
was perhaps impossible for any friend to have 
helped him much during the final period — 
though I feel others helped him more than I. 
In any event, such confidences as passed be- 
tween us are forever sacred. And Henry is 
gone. 

But one remembers small last things, — like 
our standing at the open window of the studio in 
the blue evening and his breathing, of the still 
and wistful-starred night sky, ''Such beauty!'* — 
like his last words to me at the foot of the 
Sixth Avenue Elevated stairs, that last morning, 
"Well, I'll see you — later." We cannot possibly 
know just when he made up his mind to end his 
life. 

All it meant to him — this life! It meant so 
much. It tortured him so deeply and yet he 
wrung from it so much and such exquisite 
pleasure. And the times when he was most 
happy were of such an utter simplicity — friends, 
his family, summer evenings, talk to the ac- 
companiment of some handiwork, snatches of 
song, Italian restaurant suppers, lamplight, the 
reading of poetry, firelight, mildly hilarious 
pilgrimages through moonlit streets, — friends, 
friends, friends. . . . He made many and 
[ J7 ] 



various friends that last year. He spent him- 
self in friendship, in the causes of his friends, 
in exuberance over their success, in sympathy 
for their troubles. 

I cannot, for myself, believe that a spirit such 
as Henry's is wasted. Certainly it is anything 
but wasted in the sense that he did not leave 
behind him lasting evidence of his great artistic 
versatility. And his personality will remain an 
inspiration and a splendid memory in the hearts 
and minds of all who knew him. Beyond that, 
however, I myself believe in a reason and a 
purpose for such spirits which does not exhaust 
itself merely upon this imperfect world. It is 
this faith, largely, that helps me to live. 

The work that follows speaks for itself. He 
enlisted upon America's entry into the war and 
served as a sergeant aviator in Italy and as a 
First Lieutenant in the Photographic Section of 
the Air Service in France. He did not believe 
in war as a true solution of anything. Neither 
do I. He felt bitterly disappointed in the re- 
actionary aftermath of the War. So do many 
of us still. He was an honest man and a brave, 
intellectually as well as physically. Of old and 
thoroughly American stock he was yet one of a 
new generation of pioneers, sworn to service 
[ 18 ] 



against dulness, deadness, contemporary cant 
and tyranny, and ancient sham. He lived and 
died in that service — in the service of truth and 
of Man's immortal soul. 

WILLIAM ROSE BENET. . 
New York City, February, 1921. 



[ 19 ] 



EARLY POEMS 
1908-1911 



THE LAND OF DREAMS 

Ah, give us back our dear dead Land of Dreams ! 
The far, faint misty hills, the tangled maze 
Of brake and thicket; down green woodland 

ways 
The hush of summer, and on amber streams 
Bright leaves afloat, amid the foam that creams 
Round crannied boulders, where the shallows 

blaze. 
Then life ran joyous through glad, golden days 
And silver nights beneath the moon's pale beams. 

Now all is lost. There glooms a dark morass 
Where throbbed the thrush across the dappled 

lawn. 
Oh, never more shall fairy pageants pass, 
Nor dance of light-limbed satyr, nymph and 

faun. 
Adrift among the whispering meadow-grass. 
On wind-swept uplands, yearning toward the 

dawn. 



[ 23 ] 



ROME, SUNSET 

A rosy flush spreads sweeping o'er the tiles 
Flaming from dome and portico, and where 
Some slim gold cross spires upward like a 

prayer, 
Flashes a misty halo to the miles 
Of tiering roof-tops. Where the distance smiles 
The clouds go slowly streaming down the fair 
Far vistas of the sunset seas that flare 
Saffron, afoam round pearl and silver isles. 

Palely the quiet hem of twilight falls, 
And, as a far-off bell begins to peal 
Along the valley, cloaks the rise and slips 
Over the lifting skyline's serried walls. 
The city pauses, vesperal, to feel 
The timid breath of evening on her lips. 



[ 24 ] 



JOHN KEATS 

Seer of a beauty inexpressible, 

Master of melody and quiet thought, 

Thou art the real world-teacher, one who 

wrought 
Magic undreamed of by the gods, until 
The earth stood breathless, captive to thy will, 
Who recked not of earth's favors, heeding 

naught 
But high ambition, fantasies that sought 
Only thy perfect mission to fulfill. 

Thou raised the vanished days of Greece again, 
Clothed in new splendor, and the Orient land 
Was thy familiar garden; then death smote 
Thy life out with excess of joy and pain. 
As when, upon some all-too-poignant note. 
The harpstring snaps beneath the player's hand. 



[ 25 ] 



THE PAWNSHOP 

The spectres of a thousand hopes and fears^ 
Gathered together from the ends of earth, 
Have found a haven. In this house of dearth 
They crouch amid the dust of faded years, 
Hostages held to settle waste's arrears. 
Worthless is their unutterable worth, 
Tinged with the gayness of a far-off mirth. 
Stained by the sadness of forgotten tears. 

Wild Caprice has her will of them, and flings 
Each one aside. For brighter baubles. Life 
Has passed them by. Dead passions intermix 
Among a motley of discarded things — 
A broken music-box, a rusty knife, 
A baby's rattle by a crucifix. 



[ 26 ] 



BEFORE A PORTRAIT OF 
REMBRANDT AS AN OLD MAN 

Rembrandt, thy youth was splendid as some tale 

Of one who held a genie's secret spell 

By which to charm the world, — unlock each cell 

And rock-built treasure house, and to prevail 

Over all chance of danger, like the mail 

Of famed Achilles, when so many fell 

Round Troy's high towers and golden citadel, — 

So conquering, it seemed thou couldst not fail. 

Out of the darkness of thy later years 
Rose that full glowing light, the utmost art, 
Born of the poignant searchings of thy heart, 
Perfect, untouched by either hopes or fears: 
The triumph all too great for joy, apart, — 
The tragedy of life too deep for tears. 



[ 27 ] 



THE FISHERS 

The swaying tackle dips and droops 
Down from the star-beseeching mast, 
The bent-back sculler swings and stoops. 
The caster makes his cast ; 
While fast and fast and still more fast 
The little floats run down to lee, 
An arc across the evening sea. 
To net who knows what mystery. 

For when they draw the dripping meshes, 

Sagging with unknown weight. 

Will they be bright with silver fishes, 

A shining mass that slips and threshes 

Among the cruel, baffling meshes, 

A goodly ocean freight, 

Or weed and kelp and coarse sea cress, 

Or only emptiness? 

Green, glancing fathoms under us 
What sunken wreckage sleeps? 
What age-old treasure wondrous. 
Great spoil of tempests thunderous 
White-maned across the deeps? 
Scarce swinging in the ebbing tide 
The weighted seine slips sheer. 
[ 28 ] 



A ripple whispers overside — 
What salt sea spectre pearly-eyed? 
The murdered buccaneer ! 

Some night, perchance, of starry wonder, 

Of slight and subtle air, 

Some stranger form may cleave asunder 

The waves in phosphor garlands fair. 

Such wealth of yellow hair ! 

A drowned girl? Nay, but mark the twining, 

Green-darkening and silver-shining. 

Below the rope-scarred rail ; 

Such terror-stricken, captured splashing. 

Such fear, and swiftly struggling lashing 

Of gorgeous fish's tail ; 

White shaken breasts and startled eyes 

Above the straining coils. 

Pleading with sea-wild, dumb surprise 

A world of unguessed agonies — 

A mermaid in the toils ! 

The swinging tackle droops and dips 
Down from the star-beseeching mast. 
The sculler's oar-blade slides and slips. 
From swell to swell the coble trips. 
The caster makes his cast. 
While fast and fast and still more fast 

[ 29 ] 



The bubbles spin from depths below, 
Whenas the nets in silence so 
Down through the many-shifting sea 
To snare who knows what mystery. 



[ 30 ] 



THE SPELL * 

As I came up the sandy road that lifts above the 
sea, 

Thrice and thrice the red cock crew, 

And thrice an elfin bugle blew 
From the Gates of Faerie. 



And riders passed me on the left, and riders on 
the right, 

Clad in cramoisie so fine. 

Phantom riders nine and nine, 
That faded with the night. 



The dawn was flushing in the east as I won to 
my door. 

And there within the ingle dark 

One had drawn a cantrip mark 
Upon the earthen floor. 



The thatch was matted o'er with weeds, the well 
was choked with stones. 
There lay a shroud upon the bed 
Draped and drawn from foot to head, 

As white as dead men's bones. 

[ 31 ] 



I ran and shouted down the street, but none 
would heed my cry. 

I screamed across the market-place. 

Never a burgher turned his face. 
In silence they passed by. 

Oh, none could hear and none could see the man 
they used to know. 

For he is witched for seven years, 

He who in the dawning hears 
The elfin bugles blow. 

As I came up the sandy road that lifts above the 
sea, 

Thrice and thrice the red cock crew. 

And thrice an elfin bugle blew 
From the Gates of Faerie. 



* This poem, written some ten years before, was 
accepted for magazine publication on the morning of 
the day of the author's death. 



[ 32 ] 



THE WEE MANNIE 

The dusk was dropping yesterniglit as I came 
o'er the down, 
And syne I saw a mannie small, 
Bent and crooked, swart and small, 
Standing by the kirkyard wall 

And peering toward the town. 

Then soft I put the highway's width between the 
wall and me. 

He looked so eerie in the dark, 

Strange and eerie in the dark; 

And thrice I heard the wolf-hound bark 
That crouched beside his knee. 



But oh, his eyes were unco' sharp to pierce 
through mist and mirk. 
He called me softly by my name, 
Wooed and called me by my name. 
Wooed me till at last I came 

And stopped before the kirk. 



And as I stopped before the kirk, my heart was 
cold with dread. 
My heart was cold with dread and fear, 

[ 38 ] 



Clutched by icy hands of fear, 
For faintly, faintly I could hear 
The wailing of the dead. 



They wailed and whispered in the wind that 
whispered down the sky, 
They drifted 'mongst the headstones white, 
Like the headstones weird and white. 
Saints ! It was a fearsome sight 

To watch them whirling by. 



Then straight the mannie clasped my hand, and 
straight he clasped my waist. 
He whistled shrill an elfin tune, 
Shrill and sweet a magic tune, 
And drew me toward their rigadoon. 

I crossed myself in haste. 



The stars spun round above my head, the earth 
beneath my feet. 
I clung against the cross of stone. 
Clutched the holy cross of stone. . . 
Faith, I stood there all alone 
Upon the naked street ! 

[ 34 ] 



And nevermore at dusk of day will I come o'er 
the down 
Lest I should see that mannie small, 
Bent and crooked, swart and small. 
Standing by the kirkyard wall 

And peering toward the town. 



[ 86 ] 



THE TOWER CASEMENT 

Dumb trembling lips of darkness brushed my 
face, 

The crawling shadows clung- around my feet, 
As slowly I toiled upward toward the place 

Where love and I might meet. 

Harsh hissed the stone beneatli my weary tread. 

Mocking my labor. Could my quest be vain? 
I knew not if by falsehood I was led 

Whitlier my soul was fain. 

Tlicn, clear against the rosy death of night. 
Showed the pale, narrow window. All the 
stair 

Was paved with glory in the morning light 
I knew my love was there. 



[ 30 ] 



POEMS WRITTEN DURING 
1920 



DEDICATORY 

I could not feel 
That I had crowned 
Your brow around 
With flowers meet, 
Till at your feet 
I laid this song, 
Not fine, not strong, 
And incomplete. 

But from a heart 
Too full to speak 
Aptly, the weak 
Words fall; ah, hear! 
Or far or near. 
Through good or ill, 
For their plain will 
Accept them, dear. 



[ 39 1 



NOMAD 

From the far, secret sources of the Nile, 
Lost springs among the creepers that festoon 
The foothills of the Mountains of the Moon 
Whose loins bear whispering jungle, mile on 

mile 
Upward, toward changeless snow, your chang- 
ing smile 
Leads back across the ages, like some tune 
Wrung from the wailing pipe where women 

croon 
Minor, around the acrid fires the while. 

Strange beasts, strange burdens, and still 

stranger tents 
Patched from the lion's golden skin, whose lair 
Only the burning desert knows, come down. 
Pitching between the river and the town 
Their nomad camp ; strange sounds and stranger 

scents 
Beat round, but in the midst is only you 
Smiling beneath crisped elf-locks starred with 

dew. 
Midnight's pale planets in your midnight hair. 



[ 40 ] 



COLISEUM 

Love^ I can see you standing starry-eyed 
Above the struggle in the sun-drenched cirque 
Untouched^ untroubled by the savage work 
Of man^ or finer fury of the pied, 
Striped, maned, or dappled beasts that crouched 

and cried 
Below the parapet, or from the murk 
Of the barred beast-pits snarled and turned to 

lurk 
Low in the sand some mumbled bones beside. 

Over the purple-patched campagna clouds 
Go marching westward orderly and fair, 
Rank on close rank; the green and orient sky 
Roofs the far Adriatic where mists lie 
Dreaming on mountainous Dalmatia 
And cliff-built hill-towns lost to stinking crowds, 
Dust, and salt sweat, bright blood and shining 

fascia. 
Still you stand rapt, look forth beneath your 

crown 
Of myrtle, while faint breezes of the town 
Twist the mysterious mazes of your hair. 



[ 41 1 



ON THE FLY-LEAF OF "RENASCENCE" 

Brown hermit thrush^ heart's flame in checkered 

shade 
Where the high meadow reaches to the pines 
And birches, silver-slender in long lines 
Broken by fire-slain russet deadwood made 
Glorious when golden, slanted sunbeams fade 
Into profimdity verdurous. Like bright wines 
You pour your wild melodious anodynes 
Down to a world unwonted, unafraid 
Of the world's heedless, harsh stupidity, 
Loud laughter, sudden vip'rous hate, weak tears. 
With "all the lost adventurers your peers" 
You sound your heaven-high clarion to destroy 
The fool's heart, — that same poignant cry set 

free 
New England, England, Italy, and Troy ! 



[ 42 ] 



1917-1919 

There are a few things I shall not forget: 
Midnight on Montmartre — Sacre Coeur — and 

where 
The hill drops westward down that plunging 

stair, 
The few blue lights, a fine-drawn, far-flung net 
Where once the boulevards blazed; aloft, the 

fret 
And chatter of the rotaries — and there. 
There shrieks the siren, wheeling searchlights 

flare, 
The raiders' rhythm drugs my ear-drums yet. 

Midnight in Tours against some moonlight wall, 
Piedmont in chestnut-time, at Rimini 
Red sails acluster, — going to the wars, 
Breasting the night-chop of the Irish Sea, 
The transport's deck in darkness, over all 
Lifeboats swung outboard, black against the 
stars ! 



[ 43 ] 



HYPERION TO A SATYR 

Friend, I can see you there among the reeds, 
With that briglit, onyx eye, aslant to eatcli 
My every movement, and brown, flattened 

thighs 
Showing each corded muscle flex and roll 
As you shift weight to this heel and to that. 
Squatting among crushed leafage and sweet 

grass. 
Ah, goat-legs, are you still as sensitive 
As once you were, with ear attuned to catch 
The smallest breath of all the forest sounds. 
The farthest hollo, rumored Echo's call 
Fainting and frail from some blue, misty hill, 
The booming hive or just one wind-blown bee. 
The leap of fish through thunderous waterfalls? 
If but your mind could match the senses' edge. 
So keen, it more than takes the place of mind, 
And builds a primitive greatness round your 

soul ! 
For what is mind but something shallow, bright 
As this small polished disk of bronze I hold 
So aptly in the hollow of my hand 
To watch you, plumb you, study you at ease? 
Thus you grow bolder, hold yourself secure, 

[ M ] 



Feeling that since my back is squarely turned 

And eyes are ever in the front of heads 

There is no slightest chance to be observed. 

Well, instinct is at fault, but there's no need 

To feel superior about a bit 

Of polished metal for itself, its trick 

Of showing, if one hold it close enough. 

Earth, air, and water in this little round 

My hand encompasses with such an ease. 

Move I it slightly, and the giddy clouds 

Go pouring slantwise in a cataract. 

And the sun reels and riots in the sky. 

Now once more back to hold the water-weeds, 

Mallow and marsh-grass by the river's edge. 

And you drawn down between close-sheltering 

stalks, 
A little frightened by the gesture made 
When the sun rolled, a gold bead, in my palm. 
Do you remember our first meeting, our 
Instant and certain friendship, sympathy? 
How much I loved you — loved you? — love you 

still. 
But that was long, so very long ago. 
And earth and heaven have grown old toward 

death. 
Weary and desperate and full of tears. 
We will not think on that, for when there yawns 

[ 45 ] 



Between the far, fair hills we left and those 
High, austere mountains that were our first 

goal, 
A chasm full of meagreness and stones, 
When we draw first breath on the hard-won 

height, 
We but glance downward, then look far across, 
With a slight, certain sadness for the past. 
That land was beautiful, those hills were fair. 
Earth was a course to run and heaven a hope, 
A. wider field to master in good time. 
Do you remember? Still, I do not know 
If memory is quite the thing I mean. 
For I am certain that you felt as I 
Felt then, and if the image of that time 
Is gone, or never lived beyond its one 
Moment, it makes no difference at all. 
At least rate, satyr, I got much of you, — 
A trick of treading, soft as thistle-down. 
To steal upon shy creatures and surprise 
Their ways, their loves, and all their little 

life,— 
A brood of querulous, downy pheasant chicks, 
The business and importance of the ant. 
Serpents impersonal, liquid and aloof. 
Or butterflies that have no will at all 
[ 46 ] 



Once they have burst their cerements^ got 

free. . . 
If, as we rubbed warm shoulders^ poring down 
Rapt^ on some little drama of the dust, 
You reached a brown hand, rapid as the flash 
A fish makes, striking at a summer fly, 
Catching and crushing the life out with a laugh, 
After the first cold impact of surprise 
I knew that it was nothing to be held 
Blameworthj'^, brutal in you, but the drive 
Of sphynx-faced nature working toward her 

ends. . . 

[Uncompleted] 



[ 47 ] 



THE MASTER OF THE WORLD 



THE MASTER OF THE WORLD 

Scene : A street in the outskirts of the town 
of Corinth. On the right a house-wall, with two 
windows, one above the other, the lower one 
protected by a bronze grill. Front, a deep 
archway, no door visible. At the bach, and con- 
tinuing the wall of the house, a garden wall. 
Above the wall a few branches of laurel show 
against a cold blue shy. On the left two small 
shops, scarcely more than booths. That toward 
the front is a wine shop with a bush over the 
door, a wisp of awning over the window, and a 
long rough wooden bench in front. The second 
is no more than a stall the whole front of which 
is open. A few fowls, bunches of onions and 
cheeses in nets hanging from the lintel-beam, 
and some Wooden measures full of barley in 
front show it to be the shop of a foodvendor. 
A willow cage holding a magpie hangs on a 
hrachet at the rear corner. The whole scene is 
flooded with early morning sunlight, left to 
right. The food-vendor comes out of his booth. 

[ 61 ] 



He is a small man, fattish and growing hald. 
He is drest in a dirty greyish- yelloiv chiton, 
rather too short for him, and a pair of worn 
sandals. He surveys his stock with a rather 
rueful air. 

The Foodvendor. A fine show it makes, but 
M^hat can I do? These accursed farmers bring 
what they want, when they want. And the 
prices they demand ! [^He makes a move to re- 
arrange a hunch of onions, draping it against 
one of the wooden measures.] What chance is 
there for the honest tradesman to make a living? 
[Pause.] The citizens are as bad; such a to-do 
over the smallest rise in prices. You would 
think that a few coppers more for a fowl or a 
bunch of onions was a crime on my part. Now 
by the gods, was there ever a scurvier bit of 
fortune than this : on the very day when I needs 
must make a brave show of my wares to catch 
the trade of the newcomers across the way, 
there isn't a countryman has come crying his 
truck along the street, and it long after sun-rise. 
Sloth I can't abide, nor immorality. They must 
be up to all sorts of beastliness on the farms to 
lie so late of a morning. 

[The wine seller comes out of his shop and 
[ 52 ] 



leans against the door-jamb. He is a huge man 
with a round red face on which he keeps an ex- 
pression of mock gravity. His sleeves are rolled 
up to his shoulders and an enormous wine- 
stained apron covers his chiton from armpit to 
knee.^ 

The Wine Seller. Still talking, neighbor? 
If it's to yourself yon are speechifying, you had 
better look to your wits; they'll soon be addled 
on that fare. If it's the magpie who is the 
audience, he's as deaf as a post, and if it's me, 
why I've other things to listen to. I'm married 
myself. 

The Foodvendor. Good morning, neighbor. 
I suppose you are right and one should not 
shout one's troubles to the street, but it's as 
empty as an old wine-skin of yours. 

The Wine Seller. Empty, yes. But you 
mentioned the new arrivals and who knows but 
they may be looking out one of those windows to 
see what all the noise is, and overhearing your 
little plots to get their trade. Put a brave front 
on it and they'll be the making of you yet. 

The Foodvendor. It's easy for you to talk, 

friend, and be cheerful. Your trade's good, 

without any shifts and tricks, and pretending a 

prosperity you haven't got. With us it's all a 

[ 53 ] 



question of the tone of the establishment: if 
you've a choice thing, the early artichoke, the 
milk-fed capon, the rich will pay any price for 
it and no miserable haggling over the last cop- 
per. But I've no capital. And the wealthy 
farmers never even stop to ask me if I want to 
buy. 

The Wine Seller. Ho, ho! And no won- 
der, when they hear you bargaining with some 
half-starved yokel to beat down the price of his 
wizened pippins. You have such a desperate 
pleading way with you, friend, it would melt a 
heart of brass. 

The Foodvendor. Well, I don't know why 
it is this world should be such a mad place. We 
all know it is necessary to eat to live, and that 
it is not necessary to drink, — I don't drink. 
\The wine seller raises his eyebrows as though 
expressing doubt of the foodvendor's really liv- 
ing.^ And yet they'll haggle with me over a 
mere nothing and then waste a score as much 
making hogs of themselves, sitting on your bench 
swilling wine. [Plaintively^ It isn't good for 
the tone of my shop to have them there, shout- 
ing their bawdy songs and laughing. It 
frightens the maidservants so that they go down 
the street to my rivals. 

[ 54 ] 



The Wine Seller. Our old argument, 
friend. When will the world settle it? As for 
me_, I hold with Epicurus, by inclination, and 
because it's good business. [With excitement] 
Why, Zeus, man, one year of good wine and 
good talk is worth more than a lifetime of 
pale. . . But what's the use, and anyway, 
here comes the newcomers' servant girl, so I'll 
leave you to make an impression with the "tone" 
of your shop. [The wine seller goes into his 
shop.] She'd only have eyes for my beauty if I 
stayed. 

[The maidservant enters from the archway 
right. She is a girl of about fifteen, with a 
merry face browned by the sun. Her hair is 
tied up in a woolen cloth, from under which red 
curls show. She wears a long white chiton with 
a green border {Greek fret) and carries a basket 
on her arm. As she is turning right, the food- 
vendor coughs in what he considers to be a 
fetching manner.] 

The Foodvendor. Ahem! Good morning, 
my girl. [Suddenly afraid that he is being too 
dignified, and descending swiftly to a wheedling 
manner] Aren't you looking for a nice fat fowl, 
or a fine cheese, or maybe a bunch of onions to 

[ 55 ] 



boil in white sauce? Come, look, here's of the 
best, straight from the farms this morning. 

[The girl pauses uncertainly, smiles at the 
foodvendor in a friendly fashion, showing strong 
xvhite teeth, and turns left toward his shop.\ 

The Foodvendor [at her elhoxv^ Just look. 
My stock is rather short this morning, because 
I've sold almost everything already to the 
steward of a noble who is giving a great feast 
today. But what is left is of the freshest. 

The Maid. The freshest, you say.'* [Pull- 
ing a few feathers from the breast of one of the 
fowls] Why, what do you take me for. I wasn't 
born and raised on a farm for nothing. Your 
fowls were killed last week and your onions 
have gone to seed. 

The Foodvendor [zohining] I do my best, 
young woman. It's all this unfair competition 
with those who have capital back of them. 
[Coaxingly] You may know all about a farm, 
but you've things to learn of our city ways. 
Look you, it will be worth your while to buy 
from me. I'll make it worth your while. That's 
something you didn't know. Now this is the 
way it is. . . . 

The Maid [interrupting] Oh, I know all 
about that. I may be a country girl but I 
[ 56 ] 



wasn't born yesterday. They will make me the 
same offer at all the other shops. But I've some 
pride in what I do know and so you needn't 
hope that I'll buy poor when I can find the best;, 
all for a bit of ribbon or even a pair of gilt 
sandals, come to that. [Changing the subject 
crisply] That cheese is good; I'll take it. 

[She unhooks the cheese, places it in her 
basket, and gives money.] 

The Foodvendor. Bu-but wait; you haven't 
paid me enough. I gave more than that to the 
farmer's wife who . . . 

The Maid. Nonsense ! I know what you 
give for a cheese of that size and quality. Now 
I'm off to see if the other dealers are as bad as 
you are. But we'll understand each other 
sooner or later, never fear. That is, you'll 
understand me. I understand you now. [Goes 
off right front.] 

[The hawker enters from left rear, around 
corner of the foodvendor's shop. He is a tall, 
skinny man with a red nose and an air of great 
sophistication. He has a short russet chiton 
and a faded blue cloak flung over one shoulder 
in what is now the Spanish manner. He cocks 
his head at the magpie, resting his tray on one 
hip.] 

[ 67 ] 



The Hawker. Well, old timer, and how are 
you today? Poorly, thanks be to the gods? 
You always were a sardonic fellow. But with 
more sense in one of your tail-feathers than 
your master has in all of his pursy little body. 

[The foodvendor starts angrily and goes off 
right front, bristling with offended dignity.] 

The Foodvendor [muttering as he goes] 
Professional jealousy! [Exit.] 

The Hawker [taking something from his 
tray and holding it between thumb and fore- 
figer] Here's something for you, my brave one, 
my little pied actor. Oh, how he can strut, and 
rant in pantomime. Take it, take it, it's whole- 
some. They all eat them, from prince to beggar, 
and spit the skins out anywhere, till the seats at 
the theatre are as dirty as the floor of your 
cage. But now I'm fouling my own nest and a 
wise bird never does that, unless he's locked up 
in a prison as you are, my prince of fowls. 
[Confidentially] Speaking of princes, I'll tell 
you a secret that they don't know in this sleepy 
suburb. Guess who is coming to town today? 
Incognito, of course, as the barbarians of Rome 
have it, but here just the same. [In an impres- 
sive whisper] ALEXANDER THE GREAT! 

The Magpie. Alexander the Great! 
[ 58 ] 



The Hawker. So that breaks your silence, 
does it? I'd no idea you were impressed by 
worldly pomp and magnificence. I thought you 
were the perfect philosopher, the complete 
cynic, like Diogenes. Well, I must hawk my 
wares to the crowds which will gather like flies 
over carrion when the rumor gets about. 
[Going] Empty-heads! Wind in the skull, 
wind in the mouth, wind in the belly. [He goes 
out right front, crying, off] BEANS ! WHO'S 
FOR BOILED BEANS? [Farther off] 
Golden beans — golden as amber from the 
Sicilies, golden as honey, golden as a little hen 
pheasant's eye! Who's for be-e-eans? 

[As the sound of the hawker's cries grow 
fainter, a rumbling is heard from left rear and 
an old man appears, rolling before him a great 
empty cask. He settles it with its open end 
toward the front, in the angle formed by the 
wall of the house and the garden wall. Up to 
this time his face has not been turned toward 
the audience, and there is nothing impressive in 
the bowed figure clad in one shapeless grey 
woolen garment like a voluminous sack, which 
reaches to within two or three inches of the 
knee. He wears no sandals.] 

The Old Man [Turning and facing front, 
[ 69 ] 



with one hand on the rim of the cask\ Beans. 
[His face is remarkable, with a lofty, craggy 
forehead, around which grow thick grey curls 
in great disorder. His eyebrows, bushy and 
tangled, almost hide his eyes, which are sur- 
rounded by wrinkles of laughter and deep 
thought. His nose is large and formless, his 
mouth broad and mobile under the curling 
beard, which is only streaked with grey.] 
Golden beans ! What is gold ? Mere dross, an 
inferior metal except for the chance that it is 
difficult to find. Amber, they say is unlucky, 
honey is cloying, and a little hen pheasant's eye 
is hard and lustful. Why not say golden as — 
sunlight. I must suggest it to him, in such a 
way as not to hurt his feelings. [He smiles and 
shakes his head.] I'm getting soft and senti- 
mental in my old age, but this weather and this 
sun-drenched corner [sits down in opening of 
cask and stretches out his legs] would make 
anybody's peace with the world. [He half 
closes his eyes and his face takes on a look of 
great gentleness. Musing] After all, these 
simple spots show me that humanity is not so 
bad and stupid as I sometimes think. 

[The foodvendor enters right front with his 
arms laden with vegetables and a large b^sket<, 

[ 60 ] 



He does not notice the old man hut goes straight 
to his shop-front and begins to arramjt his 
new stock, muttering to himself.] 

The Foodvendor. Slipped out to the city 
gate and found a farmer very drunk. Ho, ho ! 
They think they are sharp, these country boors, 
but I was one too many for him. Bought him 
three cups of wine and saved their price five 
times over in what I paid for his truck. 

The Wine Seller [appearing in his door- 
way] So, my moral friend. You are not blind 
to the virtues of Bacchus after all ! 

The Foodvendor [whining and on the de- 
fensive] Well, you know that in driving a bar- 
gain it is everybody for himself. Besides, if I 
were to . . . [He turns and catches sight of 
the cash with the old man half asleep in it. As 
the latter does not look at all dangerous, he 
adopts a blustering manner.] We-el, what are 
you doing there, old fellow.^ You must be off 
now, with your cask. We don't allow that sort 
of thing in this neighborhood. It's bad for the 
tone and it's bad for trade. 

The Old Man [raising his head and looking 

at the foodvendor with such fury that the latter 

jumps as though he had been stung] WE ! 

[With cold scorn] Where got you the brilliant 

[ 61 ] 



and quaint idea to use that word "we" ? You've 
no title to the land where your miserable hut 
stands, the hut itself is as leaky as an old 
sieve — a breath would blow it away. [Lower- 
ing his voice] But don't think that would make 
me scorn you. This house of mine [rapping 
with his knuckles on the side of the cask] well, 
it is not impressive architecturally speaking, 
nor especially spacious. But it is weather- 
proof, and — it suits me, it suits me. 

The Foodvendor [taking heart at the milder 
tone and beginning to bluster again] I'll have 
you know that I am an honest tradesman and 
you are [he searches for the most crushing 
word] a beggar. 

The Old Man [barking] A beggar? Homer 
begged his bread. And you an honest man, you 
shadow, you lousy wisp? By Zeus, he calls it 
virtue to lie by his wife through cowardice and 
lust after the little maidservants who buy his 
stale carrots. He calls it sobriety to be too 
mean and too dyspeptic to drink a glass of wine 
himself, and yet if it is a question of cheating 
some poor befuddled oaf, he will do his all to 
make him as drunk as a pig. There's not a fine 
thought conceived, there's not a beautiful word 
spoken in that sty of yours. A blue-faced ape 
[ 62 ] 



would think shame to have you claim cousinship 
with him. Now go, and don't dare to so much 
as to look askance at me again. 

[The foodvendor, utterly crushed and out- 
raged in his feelings, shuffles over to the bench in 
front of the wine-shop and collapses on it. He 
is almost in tears. During the whole of the pre- 
ceding dialogue the wine seller has been leaning 
against the door-jamb with his arms clasped 
across his stomach to control his laughter.] 

The Wine Seller. Don't you know who 
it is.^ 

The Foodvendor. Know who it is? I 
should hope not. Why, he isn't human ! I never 
had anybody speak to me like that in my life — 
not the finest gentleman among all the nobles, 
not the bravest soldier in the army. [Sobbing] 
It isn't fair to outrage a man's feelings that 
way, it isn't decent. He knows I'm afraid of 
him and he takes advantage of that. I'll never 
be able to hold up my head again. It is enough 
to break the spirit of an Alexander. 

The Wine Seller. Oh, cheer up, you'll get 
over it, you'll live it down, in fact I wouldn't be 
surprised to hear you boast of the conversation 
with pride, after a few days. 
[ 63 ] 



The Foodvenuor [almost speechless] Witli 
pride? 

The Wine Seller. Yes, because it isn't 
everybody who could get such a flow of lan- 
guage out of him. 

The Foodvendor. But who is he? 

The Wine Seller. Just — Diogenes. 

The Foodvendor. Diogenes.^ [He glances 
furtively in the direction of the old man, looks 
azcMy as the latter stirs slightly, and begins to 
feel himself all over, very gently, as though he 
liad just had a miraculous escape. Briglitening] 
Diogenes.^ Well, really you know, that changes 
the state of affairs. That's very interesting and, 
now, — interesting. Why, he's a famous char- 
acter. He's very well known. He'd even be 
fashionable if he would let people make a fuss 
over him. At least so I've been told. But I'd 
as soon ask a wild boar to a feast, he's that 
savage. But he is a privileged character. Oh, 
yes, and if he'll only stay here, he'll be very 
good for trade. I wonder if there is any way to 
suggest an arrangement, an arrangement of 
mutual advant — . . . 

The Wine Seller [interrupting] Good Pol- 
lux, and will you be sticking your head into that 
liornet's nest again .^^ That's the worst of you 
[ 64 ] 



smart business men^ with your hole and corner 
suggestions and your arrangements of mutual 
advantage. You've no sense of proportion and 
think that the hook that will hold a minnow will 
serve for a whale. You might as well suggest 
an arrangement with Mount Olympus. 

[Enter three carters right front. They are 
covered with dust and hold ox-goads with the 
rather graceful solemnity of the half -drunk.] 

First Carter. Well^ boys, what did I tell 
you.'' As pretty a little wine shop as ever 
thirsty eyes gazed on, and a bench which will 
just hold us three. [Singing in a maudlin, 
manner] 

As pretty as thirsty eyes could see. 
And a bench which will hold us three. 

Second Carter. If you don't hold your 
tongue, and hold your liquor, the bench will 
hold only two. I can't stand mixed metaphors 
or mixed drinks, and nobody can stand your 
singing. 

Third Carter. He means no harm. Any- 
way, let's drink. Mine host, three cups of wine, 
and swiftly, as we want to get back where the 
crowd is thickest. [The wine seller goes in and 
returns almost immediately with three leather 
I 65 ] 



cwps and a skin of wine. Handing a cup to each, 
he fills them from the skin.^ 

The Three Carters [together, drinking] 
Good stuff. [They wipe their mouths and rise.] 

[The maidservant enters right front, crying, 
with her basket hanging empty from one hand.] 

First Carter. Don't cry, my little one, 
don't cry, my pretty duck. 

Second Carter. Leave her alone, fool! 

Third Carter. Don't snap at him like that. 
Can't you enjoy a drink or so without criticizing 
everybody? Be courtly, as I am. Like this: 
[Turning to the girl with a deep bow] Fair one, 
why these tears .^ Though they become your 
cheeks like pearly dewdrops on the damask rose, 
yet . . . 

Maidservant. Stop ! 

Foodvendor. Hoity-toity, where are your 
manners, miss ? Is this the way they teach you 
to answer a civil question in the country? And 
how about your market basket? Empty, eh? 
We aren't so smart as we thought we were when 
making game of the stock of a humble merchant ! 

Second Carter. Damn you, don't speak to 
her like that ! 

First Carter. And the man who says a 
[ 66 ] 



word against the country will have to reckon 
with me ! 

Third Carter. You little sneering scorpion, 
somebody ought to step on you. 

[At this general outburst of disapproval the 
foodvendor hacks toward his shop followed hy 
the three carters in a chorus of criticism. The 
girl, forgotten hy attacker and defenders alike, 
stands irresolute, wiping her eyes on her hare 
arm and grimacing like a small child, to keep 
down her sohs.^ 

Diogenes [softly^ Come here, child. [He 
rises, takes the hasket from her gently, reverses 
it so that it forms a low stool, and makes her sit 
down on it. In the meantime, the foodvendor 
has slipped round the corner of his shop, left 
rear, and disappeared, followed hy the three 
carters.] Let's see, the basket is empty. But 
don't cry any more, I'm sure we can fix it all 
right if we only think. Don't cry. You can tell 
me about it in a minute or so. Or I will begin. 
You went down the street and bought a fowl. 

Maidservant. A peahen. 

Diogenes [nodding] Yes, a peahen. And 
then you were looking for early artichokes. 

Maidservant [brightening] Yes, and carrots, 
and I found such good ones. And figs. The 
[ 67 ] 



figs are wonderful this year. There was a 
crowd and it got thicker all the time. 

Diogenes. Crowds do. That's why I avoid 
them now. 

Maidservant. And there was a long man, a 
man with a funny nose who . . . 

Diogenes. The beanseller? 

Maidservant. The beanseller. He cried out 
in a loud voice, hawking his beans. [Breath- 
lessly] And then there were soldiers, oh such 
beautiful men, like young gods. And the crowd 
pressed forward, and I saw a young man among 
the soldiers. A god he was, with fair copper 
colored hair in tight curls like carved metal, and 
the bridge of his nose was like the prow of a 
swift ship. At least, I never saw such a ship, 
but it made me think of that, and lots of excit- 
ing things. Then I stood on tiptoe, for I am 
very small, and my basket slipped and every- 
thing tumbled in the dust. But the crowd only 
laughed and trampled by me, and the soldiers 
closed in and I did not see my beautiful man 
any more. [»So?>*.] 

Diogenes [patting her head] Crowds, crowds. 

Here we are, with our little baskets full of 

household virtues, and we see the rare thing, the 

fine thing, or anyway the thing that seems fine 

[ 68 ] 



to us. And our souls stand on tiptoe with joy. 
Then the crowd pitches all our little virtues in 
the dust, and laughs. [Shaking himself, to 
throw off his disgust.] Anyway, we can fill your 
basket again, so cheer up, child. 

Maidservant. Oh, I wasn't crying about the 
marketing. My mistress can beat me for that, 
but it was really an accident and I can stand it. 
I had to cry because the young man was so 
beautiful. 

Diogenes. Oh. [A long pause.] Just like 
a philosopher to overlook that. 

Maidservant. And that's why I was so 
furious at that silly fool of a carter who tried to 
speak like a poet. 

Diogenes. I see. 

[The foodvendor enters, left rear, rubbing his 
hands and chuckling. He approaches the wine 
seller, who has been leaning against his doorway 
half asleep and shows him in pantomime how he 
defied and worsted the three tipsy carters. The 
wine seller, utterly bored, closes his eyes.] 

Diogenes [looking at the foodvendor in a ter- 
rifying manner] Worm! [The foodvendor 
trembles.] Bring me a peafowl, artichokes and 
carrots. [The foodvendor, as though hypno- 
tized, gets the things and brings them over, 
[ 69 ] 



standing before Diogenes in a panic. Diogenes 
rises, helps the maidservant to her feet, picks 
up her basket a7id places the things in i<.] 

Diogenes. Here^ child. {Hands her the 
basket,} And if your mistress asks whom you 
were talking with, say that the philosopher 
greets the daughter of the philosopher, and that 
he was sitting at the feet of wisdom. She will 
understand. 

FooDVENDOR [aside^ That's more than I do. 

Maidservant. Yes, father. And how can I 
thank you for being so nice to me.^ 

Diogenes [smiling^ Well, if you should be 
dusting and sweeping the upper chamber, and 
if your heart should feel like singing, I shall be 
here to listen and enjoy. 

{The maidservant smiles and runs out right 
through the archway. \ 

Foodvendor. And who's to pay for all this? 
I'm a virtuous man and . . . 

Diogenes. Out of your own mouth you are 
answered. Virtue is its own reward. {^Turns 
his back on the foodvendor who retires into his 
shop, shaking his head. The wine seller smiles, 
then lies down on his bench and sleeps.] 

Song [off] 

[ 70 ] 



"MAN HAS A SOUL—" 

Man has a soul must be wed to sorrow, 
Scourged by passion and faith and joy; 
Spurning today to attain tomorrow, 
Spending the blood he cannot re-borrow, 
Building on what he must first destroy. 

Crushed, dispirited, broken, faithless. 
Sunk to the rock-walled belly of earth 
He shall stand up, and old scars na'theless 
Quit his body and leave it scatheless, 
Cold, impersonal in rebirth. 

And when the new soars up and over, — 
As spring succeeds to the months of rain, 
With fresh life starring mead and cover. 
The earth gives back to her perfect lover 
Passion and faith and joy again. 

Diogenes [looking up at the windozv] Youth, 
lyric youth. So hopeful, so passionate, mys- 
terious and sad. But [changing his tone and 
walking over to the magpie* s cage] I can think 
until my brain reels, and there is always some- 
thing, some simple thing that I cannot foretell. 
I should have known why she was crying, but — 
I'll never learn everything. 
[ 71 ] 



The Magpie. Never learn everything. 

Diogenes Poor pie, have you found that out 
in your bitter prison .f' Poor pie. [With a sud- 
den characteristic change to fury.] By the gods, 
the stupid cruelty of man is beyond belief. To 
keep a live thing, a winged thing that can scale 
the heavens and sport among the clouds mewed 
up in a filthy bundle of willow wythes ! Here. 
[Takes down the cage and opens its door.] Go, 
fly, be free! [The magpie makes no effort to 
get out hut clings fast to his perch.] There is 
a symbol of man's soul. Freedom, the greatest 
gift of all, becomes something to shrink from 
with terror, to hound, to stamp out when the 
world gets too used to metes and bounds. Oh, 
for a few, a very few wild spirits who dare look 
freedom in the face, to take her like lovers. 
[He closes the door of the cage and rehangs it 
on its hook.] Friend, you are right, the time 
has gone for you. [He walks over to his cask 
and crawls inside as the haivker enters right 
front. The latter is swinging his empty tray by 
one hand and is in great spirits.] 

The Hawker. If one grew lusty on laugh- 
ing, Hercules would be a stripling by compari- 
son. Gods, what a quaint animal it is, our citi- 
zenry. Fill its eves with the sight of soldiers, 
' [ 72 ] 



its ears with the squalling of brass trumpets, 
and its belly with boiled beans. Then it will 
purr like a barred tomcat on top of a sun-lit 
wall. [He sees the wine seller sleeping and goes 
over and places the empty tray on his stomach.] 
Ho, my Spartan youth, you have come home be- 
neath your shield! [The wine seller opens his 
eyes and heaves the tray off with a slight motion 
of his body.] Or maybe I should call you Poly- 
phemus heaving the Sicilian villages into the 
sea. 

The Wine Seller. If I'd known your tray 
was empty, I would have saved my strength, 
jackdaw. What, all the beans sold.'^ Industry, 
industry, what a jewel thou art. 

The Hawker. Industry nothing. They 
rushed at me with money in their hands and had 
the whole stock off my tray and bulging their 
fat cheeks before you could empty a cup of wine. 
Which reminds me, I've earned a slight libation 
to the fair god Bacchus. [The wine seller 
starts to rise.] No, friend, don't trouble your- 
self. I can get it; and shall I draw for two? 
[The wine seller nods.] Good. [The hawJcer 
goes into the shop and returns with two cups of 
wine.] Drink, my golden tapster, my little 
terra-cotta Ganymede! [The wine seller sits 

[ 73 ] 



up and they drink. The hawker throws hack 
his head.] How it glads the gullet. I like to 
stretch my neck and make flat the throat ; then 
I can feel it all the way down. 

The Wine Seller. Good wine. And there 
are madmen who say that it is wicked to drink. 
But I won't call them men. Stupid cows; 
camels. [He tosses the empty cup through the 
door.] Great Olympus, as if fools and knaves 
couldn't spoil the finest things in this world. 
It's all in the way you take life. There's no 
harm in the good grape, it's in the . . . 

The Hawker. I know. But don't you re- 
member how we had to call for the barber- 
surgeon, the little Esculapius, and he put a round 
dozen of leeches on your neck to break the fit 
the last time you got on that subject? 

[Tzvo men enter right. They are both young, 
in the early twenties, and have the physique and 
clear bronzed skin of people who spend their 
lives in the open. They are dressed in long 
woolen cloaks which fall in great simple folds 
from shoulder to heel, so that it is impossible to 
tell their rank, except that they follow the pro- 
fession of arms. The taller is dark-haired and 
rather slight in build, though pozverful. The 
other arrests attention immediately, the atten- 
[ 74 ] 



tion first being drawn to the superb set of the 
round head on the great neck, which rises like 
a Doric column from the grey cloak. His hair 
is red-gold and curls in archaic rings all over his 
head and around the small, beautifully set ears. 
His eyes, intensely blue, have the rapt, in- 
scrutable look of the great idealist or great 
egoist. The way he handles his body shows per- 
fect coordination and his voice, even when 
pitched in a whisper, has the flexibility and 
power of an organ. His bearing is that of a 
demi-god. There are blue circles under the eyes 
of both and a slight pallor showing through the 
tan.] 

Dark Soldier [moving toward the archzvay] 
Where can he have taken himself off to? He's 
as elusive as a squadron of Parthian horse. 
And it's like his pleasant habit of charging out 
of the theatre when the crowd begins arriving, 
to slip out to this suburb on the day of days. 

Fair Soldier. If he was trying to pique my 
interest he could not have adopted a better shift. 
But his strength is that he does not care. 

Dark Soldier. Sire^ I am not sure of that. 
It is one thing to scorn the ordinary pomps and 
powers of life and another to be indifferent to 
[ 75 ] 



world power. Lives there a man whose soul can 
put aside the offers of the master of the world? 

Alexander. I do not know, friend, but 
[catching sight of the cask] I think we have run 
the lion to his lair. 

Dark Soldier. Yes, surely. That's his new 
house. They say that when that gross army 
contractor, grown proud of his sudden riches, 
was boasting of his marvelous morals, Diogenes 
answered that the god Bacchus had dyed the 
walls of his bedchamber with Tyrian purple. 

[They advance toward the cask and regard 
the sleeping philosopher. The wine seller and 
the hawker sit up straight on the bench. The 
latter shows rising excitement, which he com- 
municates to his huge companion by indicating 
in dumb show that the newcomer is Alexander. 
The foodvendor appears, eyeing the two cloaked 
figures, appraising them as possible customers; 
starts forward, thinks better of it, and remains 
half in his shop with his neck craned forxvard.] 

Alexander. What a daunting thing is sleep. 
How that mimic death does take the beholder by 
the throat, and give him pause. A great purge 
for pride. 

[The maidservant comes out of the arched 
doorway, right, and begins to sprinkle the 
[ 76 ] 



ground with water from an earthenware jar, 
dipping it out with her hand.^ 

Maidservant. Down^ dust ! Shall I be al- 
ways sweeping and driving you outside to the 
kitchen-midden^ and you flying in gaily by the 
window again? [Sings\ 

The earth gives hack to her perfect lover 

Passion and faith and joy again. 

[At the sound of the singing, Alexander 
glances toward her, smiling, and she sees him 
for the first time. Her face goes white, she sets 
down the jar very gently and leans against the 
arch as though faint. In a whisper to herself] 

Maidservant. My beautiful one ! 

[Three or four people enter left rear, among 
them one of the carters. Two women enter 
right front and all stand as though sensing 
something great about to happen.^ 

Dark Soldier. Diogenes. 

Diogenes [waking and sitting up in his cask, 
with a look of annoyance] Who are you, and 
what do you mean by disturbing me? 

Alexander [slipping his cloak from his 
shoulders with the horn actor's sure instinct for 
the dramatic, so that it slides to the ground, 
leaving him superh in his golden armor, over a 
vermilion tunic] The son of Philip. 

[ 77 ] 



Dark Soldier. Alexander the Great! 

All [except the maidservant, in varying 
tones of wonder, awe and admiration] Alexan- 
der the Great ! 

Diogenes. Yes. And I the son of Icesias 
the swindler. 

Alexander [calling on all his art to draw 
some response from the philosopher] Diogenes, 
I greet you. Though conqueror of the world, 
with armies at my back whose mastery is such 
that none has ever seen the like, I stand before 
you as man to man, as equal, and only ask: 
what, from my power, can I do for you? 

[Carried away by his own half -unconscious 
pentameters, he steps forward and casts a 
shadow on the reclining figure. The dark 
soldier stoops and picks up the cloak. Diogenes 
looks at the resplendent figure for several 
moments, apparently quite unmoved. The crowd 
stands breathless with tension.] 

Diogenes [quietly] You can stand out of the 
sunshine. 

[Alexander does not take in the import of the 
answer for a few seconds, and, puzzled, steps 
backward out of the light. Slowly his face 
darkens as the full quality of the rebuff sinks 
into his brain. The dark soldier stands like a 
[ 78 ] 



statue, with Alexander's cloak over his left arm 
and his right hand half drawing his sword from 
under his cloak. Alexander's fury reaches a 
climax and his face passes into an expression of 
deep thought, touched with sadness. He bows 
silently to Diogenes, then turns to the dark 
soldier, takes the cloak and wraps it around 
himself .\ 

Alexander [<o the dark soldier, gently] And 
I was weeping for new worlds to conquer ! [He 
walks sloivly front, his head bowed, and then 
turning to his left with military precision, goes 
out right front, followed by the dark soldier.] 

[The whole crowd has stood as though turned 
to stone and remain so for a minute or two. 
Then the maidservant, coming to life, darts from 
the arch and stands before Diogenes.] 

Maidservant [with passion, stamping her 
foot] YOU HORRID OLD MAN! 

CURTAIN 



[ 79 ] 



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''--"'ml- 



LIBRARY OF ,CONGRg=> 



015 908 466 8^ 



WM^M&S^mK^^SSm 






DRY POINTS 

1887-1920 



BY 
HENRY MARTYN HOYT 



